


how do you sandwich!?

by killerqueenwrites



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Edwin Jarvis Rights, Fluff, Gen, Humor, The Great Sandwich Debate of 2020, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, butter goes on sandwiches, this is pure chaos i'm so sorry, this is quite possibly the most ridiculous thing i've ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueenwrites/pseuds/killerqueenwrites
Summary: “Why are you buttering toast before you toast it?”“I’m not toasting this.”“Then what are you doing?” Peter demands.“I’m making a sandwich.”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 37
Kudos: 315
Collections: Irondad and his Iron kids





	how do you sandwich!?

**Author's Note:**

> apologies if you've already seen this on my tumblr or you've had to deal with people shouting about sandwiches on discord for the past few days.

“What are you _doing_?”

Tony pauses at Peter’s frankly quite loud question – he hadn’t meant to shout given there’s only a counter and half a small kitchen separating them, but the shock had overridden pretty much everything else. “Buttering the bread…?”

“Why are you buttering toast before you toast it?”

“I’m not toasting this.”

“Then what are you doing?” Peter demands.

“I’m making a sandwich.”

“You’re what?” Peter’s voice is barely a squeak. He points to the bread, then the knife in Tony’s hand, a slab of butter dangling precariously above the counter, then to the heavens like that might provide some answers. “You – how – what? _What_?”

“Kid–“

“How do you sandwich!?”

“What?” Tony shouts back, confusion and panic at war on his face. Panic seems to be winning. In fairness, Peter had driven all the way from Boston, walked into the house, dumped his backpack on the floor and immediately started yelling. “ _What_?”

“That’s not how you make a sandwich!”

Tony stares. The butter slides off the knife and hits the counter. 

“You don’t put butter on a sandwich! You put mayo, or mustard, or – or something that’s not butter!”

“Have you had a bad day?” Tony asks, not moving an inch. “Something happen on the drive down here? Fight with MJ? Any other reason you came into the house and immediately started _berating_ me for something I’ve been doing since I was five goddamn years old?”

“Who corrupted you? Who told you it was okay to put slabs of fat on bread?”

“Jarvis and my Aunt Peg,” Tony says.

Peter blinks. “Well, now I just feel terrible.”

“As you should,” Tony says, but his voice is light. “Seriously, kid, I’ve known you for years, even without counting the, ah, _interval_ –“ They both wince. “Have you seriously never seen me make a sandwich? Never eaten one I gave you?”

Peter thinks. Really thinks. “There was a lot of takeout back then,” he says finally. “Some Italian cooking when you put your mind to it. Maybe a grilled cheese. I don’t think we ever just had…sandwiches.”

“Then I have failed you,” Tony says emphatically. “Come here. We’re making sandwiches properly.”

“Mr Delmar doesn’t–“

“Mr Delmar makes subs. Not sandwiches. Come on, you need food, anyway. Long drive, I bet.” 

Peter moves closer, wary of the knife that Tony’s still brandishing wildly. “Are we going to make cucumber sandwiches? Scones? Colonise the world?”

“That’s almost offensive.”

Peter shrugs. “My mom was Irish. I have a lot of repressed anger.”

“Probably fair. Anyway, come on!” Tony turns to pat the countertop and puts his hand slap-bang in the blob of butter. “Okay. Right. Um…”

Pepper chooses that moment to sweep into the house, as put-together as usual. She takes one look at Tony, one hand covered in butter, the other holding a knife, and turns to Peter, who probably looks torn between laughing and crying. “Should I ask? Do I want to know?”

“Apparently I make sandwiches wrong.” Tony jabs the knife in Peter’s direction. “You know, _Morgan_ never complains about my sandwiches “

“You put butter on your sandwiches!” 

“We’ve established that already.”

“I am disgusted by you and everything you stand for.”

“Do you want a damn sandwich or not?”

“I want a sandwich with mayonnaise, like a civilised person.” 

Pepper smiles, seemingly more to calm herself down than anything else, and glides out of the room.

“Finally found Pepper’s limit,” Tony says, grabbing a cloth and wiping his hand, “and apparently it’s arguing with my college-age kid about sandwiches. Christ, I knew students ate weird shit, but looks like it’s all evolved since my day.”

“I’ll make my own sandwich, thank you. You clearly can’t be trusted.” Peter pauses. “It doesn’t sound like a word anymore.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Sandwich.” Peter sounds it out in his mouth. “Sand- _wich_. What a stupid word. Where’d it come from?”

“Some rich dude wanted to play cards. I don’t know.” Tony finally puts down the knife and Peter deems it safe enough to move closer. “Hello.”

“Hi.” Peter sidles up to him and gets his long-awaited hug, resting his cheek on Tony’s shoulder with a contented sigh. “I appreciate that you’re no longer threatening me with a knife.”

“Can you blame me? I was in shock. I’ve never made you a sandwich.” Tony sniffs. Melodramatic asshole. “I’ve tried my best, y’know? It wasn’t always easy. You try to do the best for your kids and then one day you find out you’ve failed as a parent–“

“You didn’t fail me by not sneaking blobs of salted fat into my food.”

“Sneak: one hundred,” Tony says, having clearly been talking to Harley, who likes to teach him years-old memes because Harley is terrible and awful and the bane of Peter’s life and was put on this earth solely to torment him. “So, now we’ve deescalated the previously fraught situation like mature adults, I’ll ask again: long day?”

Peter shrugs. “Friday traffic. Had a submission this morning – only a few hundred words, though. Lab report for something we did on Monday.”

“All good?”

“Yeah, it was piss-easy.”

“Language.”

“Hypocrite.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

Peter scoffs and opens the fridge, pulling out the jar of pickles.

“Number five?” Tony asks.

“You got it.”

“Gonna be a square instead of a sub, but I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“With mayo,” Peter says firmly, and ignores Tony’s heartbroken sigh. “Stop trying to manipulate me. It’s not working. If I give in, you’ll have me eating crumpets.” A thought strikes him, and he shudders. “Beans on toast.”

“There’s a thought for dinner,” Tony says cheerfully, “but have you considered fish and chips?”

“This is wounding my soul.”

“We should go to London. See the sights. Get you some British culture.”

“Yeah, last time I was in London, a lot of it got blown up. Like, a _lot_. Mostly important things, too.”

“All the more reason. You didn’t get to see any of it.”

“I was busy almost dying.”

“So we’ll go for a fun trip this time.”

“It was meant to be a fun trip _last_ time.”

“If Fury comes near you, I will personally punch him the face. So would Happy.”

“Happy is _not_ coming,” Peter says. “You are _not_ turning this hypothetical trip into a lads and dads vacation, or whatever.”

“Don’t you want to bond with your future step-uncle?”

“Seeing him in nothing but a towel in May’s apartment was enough bonding, thank you!” Peter says loudly. “Plus, he did fly hours to pick me up when I got arrested and gave me some pretty good advice. So. You know. All good on the Happy front.”

“All right, all right.” Tony takes a bite of his sandwich – ham salad, it looks like. “When you graduate, we’re going to London. I’ve decided. And the rest of England. _Culture_ , Webs. Afternoon tea at some posh hotel. Angry cab drivers, road rage and all. Greasy chip butties – butter is a requirement on those. But also, like, we can go all over. Posh little villages in the Cotswolds. Tiny winding country lanes that barely fit one car down them. Village pubs that have been there for hundreds of years. Weird cobbled streets that’ll twist your ankles. Moorland, Pete, that goes on for miles. Sheep hanging off the side of mountains like gravity doesn’t apply to them. Some of it looks like it belongs in Middle Earth.” He pauses, childlike excitement, nostalgia, _happiness_ sparking in his eyes. “Jarvis took me when I got my first masters.”

“So you were, what, twelve?” Peter says.

That gets a snort. “Nineteen.”

“Try-hard.”

“Says the one double-majoring in chemical engineering and biochem.” Tony groans. “God, _and_ Harley’s doing electrical and mechanical engineering. I’ve made a terrible mistake. You’re going to be unstoppable.”

“Don’t forget Ned is doing CompSci,” Peter says, finally, _finally_ getting to take a mouthful of his sandwich. “And MJ can do literally anything. Plus, with Morgan’s negotiating power, we’ll rule the world. Tributes will come in the form of juice pops. We shall ban butter on sandwiches.”

“Even grilled cheeses? Because it just wouldn’t be the same.”

“An exception shall be granted for grilled cheese sandwiches,” Peter proclaims. 

“Then you are a merciful ruler indeed.” Tony ruffles his hair. “Now, afternoon snack out of the way. We have some time before dinner. Lab?”

“Lab,” Peter agrees. “Not to be a freeloading student, but what’s for dinner?”

“Mom’s secret recipe bolognese.”

“Oh, thank God. Thought we’d lost Italian Tony for a minute.”

“ _Brat_.”

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @akillerqueenwrites or @akillerqueenyouare. i also have a twitter, @killerqueenao3, if any of you want to talk to me there (it's mostly pictures of my dog). thank you for reading!


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